


Second Thoughts (A Monster with Two Heads and One Heartbeat)

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Genji Shimada is NOT a little shit, Incubus McCree, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, demon!mccree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: Hanzo knew three things about the gunslinger with absolute certainty:1.) That he was ruggedly handsome2.) That he was dangerous3.) That he was not humanIt probably said a lot about him that he was more concerned about the first thing than the other two.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seizure7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizure7/gifts).



> All the actually mature stuff will be in part two, but we have to go through this to get there.

Hanzo knew immediately that the man in front of him was inhuman. His brother ( _ alive, half-machine, and incomprehensibly forgiving _ ) didn’t seem concerned, but surely even Genji must have noticed the too-dark eyes, the too-sharp teeth, the slight blur around his edges when the human eye tried to subconsciously slide away. If he hadn’t, he couldn’t have missed the way Hanzo’s dragon reared up and hissed when the man offered to shake his hand. 

 

“Well now,” said McCree, stepping back to stare at the defensive dragons. “How about that?”

 

“Hanzo, please!” Genji protested with the same tone of voice he once used to ask Hanzo not to embarrass him in front of his friends. Hanzo ignored him the same way he had then and fixed McCree with an imperial glower. 

 

“What are you?” he demanded. 

 

McCree blinked. 

 

Genji groaned and dropped his face to his hands. 

 

“Rude,” he bemoaned. “All my hard work to get you a blank slate introduction, and you ruin it in ten seconds.” But McCree just laughed, warm and surprisingly heartfelt for a creature that may very well have lacked the organ in question. Hanzo remained on guard, even as the cowboy pulled off his iconic hat. 

 

“You don’t have to worry none about me,” he said. “I’m fourth-generation and born topside. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, but I’m about as human as y’all in the long run.” In the light, his eyes were solid black, with not even a reflection to give them depth until golden irises suddenly bloomed in the dark. 

The dragons did not back down. 

 

“So embarrassing,” Genji groaned. “I’m sorry, McCree. I’d tell you he isn’t normally like this, but. Well.” 

 

“It’s all right.” McCree tilted his head and then did something that startled Hanzo out of his stance: he addressed the dragons. In Japanese.  _ “Revered guardians, I mean your host no harm.”  _

 

“How come his dragons are “revered guardians” and mine was a “damn nuisance?” Genji demanded. 

 

“Well, for starters, they didn’t steal my hat,” McCree replied. 

 

Between the banter and the lack of any real aggression on the cowboy’s part, Hanzo found his distrust faltering. Genji obviously knew the man well, and there was no sign of his green dragon, so its favor was obviously a point to McCree. Still, Hanzo had not survived the clan’s assassins, the court’s killers, and the Wild Hunt just to be lured to his death by his brother’s  _ (handsome, too handsome) _ friend. 

 

“Fourth generation from what?” he asked. Genji cringed again. 

 

“Rude, brother!” 

 

McCree scratched at his beard. 

 

“I don’t think they bother y’all much over in the east, but here they tend to get called incubi or succubi,” he said. “Put plainly, sex demons.” 

 

Hanzo tried valiantly to contain the scoff, but it shattered his composure like a baseball through a glass window. 

 

“ _ You _ are a sex demon?” he snorted. “Looking like that?” 

 

“Hanzo!” Genji snapped, but McCree’s black eyes narrowed, unspeakable intent in the black depths. 

 

“And what do I look like to you, then?” he asked, and the careful arrangement of his words gave Hanzo pause. Even Genji stopped his lament to watch them. 

 

“An anachronism,” Hanzo said. 

 

“C’mon, don’t play coy now, just tell me what you see.” McCree all but pouted. Hanzo cast a glance to Genji, but his brother’s expression was unreadable. 

 

“A tall man,” he said slowly. “Broad shoulders. Brown hair. Badly in need of a shave. Black eyes, inhumanly so.” 

 

“Huh.” 

 

“Is this not the usual answer?” 

 

“Most people say ‘handsome’, or something along those lines.” McCree shrugged, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Hanzo raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. 

 

“There is no accounting for taste.” 

 

Genji cackled. McCree sulked. 

 

“I’ll have you know I’m the perfect partner,” he drawled. “Guaranteed good time, apparently excluding you Shimada. I can see the heart and soul of anyone who takes their pleasure with me.” 

 

Hanzo’s brow furrowed, and he unconsciously licked his lips as his eyes roved over McCree’s form. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Yup! And it works out of bed as well as in. I’ll be your perfect match on the battlefield, too. Good as if we’d been fighting together for years.” 

 

“It’s true!” Genji nodded. “They used to make him sleep with new recruits for expediency.” 

 

Hanzo’s stoic expression jack-knifed directly to horror. He quickly turned between McCree and Genji in confusion and dread. 

 

“No one made anyone do anything or anyone,” McCree glowered. “I offered, is all. Some turned me down on account of not wanting to get involved with a demon, some on account of having someone else, and some on account of just plain not wanting to. I did partner up with a good many, but it sure as hell wasn’t all.” He looked up at Hanzo through his lashes, though it was a lot less effective as an abashed look without human irises or sclera. “I didn’t lay a finger on your brother. Honest.” 

 

Genji snorted something that sounded like,  _ “he didn’t have to.” _ Hanzo chose to ignore it for his peace of mind. 

 

“Ah,” he said. 

 

“If you’re interested, I certainly wouldn’t mind getting my hands on you,” McCree purred. The sound sent shivers up up Hanzo’s spine, and he took a step backwards, just in case the man bit. 

 

“And what exactly is it you get from such an arrangement?” 

 

“You mean besides laid?” McCree’s allure cracked with his wry grin. “Just a little pep, sugar. Great-Gramma may have been able to suck a man’s soul out from his cock, but I tend to get about as good a kick off a strong cup of coffee.” He winked. Hanzo struggled not to find it charming. 

 

“You are both horrible,” Genji muttered. “You deserve each other. I wish you joy and a bountiful union.” 

 

“Genji!” Hanzo snapped, but Genji just darted off, laughing to himself. Hanzo growled in frustration, but McCree’s low chuckle brought him back. 

 

“All joking aside, you interested?” he asked. “I can be whatever you want me to be.” 

 

“I would prefer a partner who is only themselves” Hanzo shook his head. “I have no need of your tricks, thank you.” 

 

A strange look settled on McCree’s face, pale gold blooming in the dark of his eyes again. 

 

“Is that so?” he murmured. The soft rumble of his voice stirred butterflies in Hanzo’s stomach and lit fire to the ends of nerves he thought long dead. “What if it were just us, then? Getting to know each other better.” 

 

Hanzo recoiled. 

 

“That is a disappointment I would not wish on anyone, human, demon, or otherwise,” he said. “Genji was right. I am horrible, and you would do better to find your pleasure with company more worthy of it.” 

 

And, as was apparently family tradition, he ran off before McCree could contradict him. 

 

McCree watched him go. 

 

“Guess we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.” 

  
  


That would have been the end of that, except for two key facts: 

 

  1. They were still on the same rag-tag, understaffed, over-idealistic vigilante team of would-be heroes, and
  2. Hanzo was, in fact, horrifically attracted to McCree, sex demon or no. 



 

Had he anyone he trusted enough to share his dilemma, he would have rhapsodized about the timbre of the man’s voice, the gentility he showed around civilians, and the mysterious draw of the “lone gunslinger.” Having no such confidant, he would have retreated to the cold comfort of solitude, but even the slim numbers of the Watchpoint didn’t allow for isolation. Hanzo was forced to endure cohabitation, group trainings, and communal meals taking up much of his non-mission related time. There was really no way to escape McCree’s company, and, if he were honest with himself  _ (he rarely was) _ , he didn’t want to. 

  
  


Shortly after meeting McCree, Hanzo crept into the kitchen early, hoping to grab a quick bite and disappear again. Instead, he found McCree digging through the cupboards with half a dozen little tins on the counter beside him. 

 

“Morning, Shimada-san!” McCree called out without turning around. Hanzo startled; he had not thought he made any sound. 

 

“How did you know it was me?” he demanded. “Another trick up your sleeve?” 

 

“Technically, yeah, but not the way you’re thinking.” McCree threw him a mischievous glance  _ (sharp and soft and oh so lovely) _ and held up a silver tin. “Caught a bit of your reflection moving in the surface. Only three people I know who can move that quiet are you, your brother, and that floating monk he brought. Figured two out of three would answer to that. Not bad odds.” 

 

Hanzo steadfastly refused to be amused.  _ (It didn’t work, and he had to smother a laugh). _

 

“I cannot imagine Genji’s reaction were you to address him so formally,” he said. 

 

“I tried being all polite when we first met, but it didn’t take a roll in the hay to see that wasn’t doing it for him,” McCree said. “I came up with the most gods-awful nicknames to try and get a rise out of him.” 

 

Hanzo’s breath caught in his throat, but McCree went on, and the litany of ridiculous nicknames somehow soothed the persistent ache of guilt. “Let’s see. Astro-turf and Moss-top, because of his hair. Terminator -- that was a low blow, I’ll admit -- and Will-it-blend ‘cause of his fighting styles. Ginsu and Teenage Cyborg Ninja Turtle. Sentai. Henshin. And oh, those two… I never wanna mix up those words again.” 

 

Hanzo choked as he realized what must have come out of McCree’s mouth. 

 

“Yeah, go ahead and laugh. It’s pretty damn funny now, all things considered.” McCree smiled. “That was really the icebreaker, though. Worth it, to be called “Tentacles” for the next two weeks.” 

 

Hanzo did laugh, but when he caught his breath, the guilt came creeping back in. 

 

“Green or black?” McCree asked suddenly, dislodging the vine of self-recrimination growing up his throat. 

 

“Green or black?” Hanzo repeated dumbly. McCree held up a little tin and gestured to the others. 

 

“I mean, I also got coffee, but it’s the kind where they burned the beans to hide the crap taste.” 

 

“Oh. Black, please. Thank you.” 

 

“Pick your poison. We got Ceylon, Darjeeling, English Breakfast, English Afternoon, and Irish Breakfast.” McCree scowled at the labels. “What’s the difference between Breakfast and Afternoon?” 

 

“Usually between four to six hours,” Hanzo muttered, “depending on when you wake up.” 

 

McCree laughed. The sound was surprisingly restrained given the way it bounced in his chest; he threw back his head and exposed the thick column of his neck.  _ (Hanzo wanted to lick it.) _

 

“What’ll it be?” 

 

“Ceylon, please, but you do not have to--” 

 

McCree waved him off. 

 

“I’m going to have a cup myself. Stewed leaves are as good as the boiled dirt they got for coffee.” He went through the process of measuring tea into the strainers, pouring the water, and setting the timer. Hanzo watched the steady, practiced movements of his hands.  _ (He wanted to feel them, to have them run over his skin). _ He said nothing. Eventually, McCree brought over a steaming mug. 

 

“Need anything for it? Milk? Sugar?” 

 

“No, thank you.” 

 

“Honey?” 

 

Hanzo felt his cheeks warm slightly, and he brought the mug up to hide any rosiness. 

 

“I am satisfied. Thank you.” 

 

“No problem.” 

 

They drank in silence for a moment, and Hanzo felt his pulse slowly calm down. Fine. This was fine. He was dining with a colleague. He could handle this--

 

“I’ll bet you fifty credits you can make it halfway through the list before Genji catches on.” McCree said suddenly. Hanzo almost choked on his tea. 

 

“What list?” He asked, when he was reasonably sure he was out of danger. 

 

“The dumb nicknames list,” said McCree. “I got ‘em written down somewhere, and you look like a clever fellow.” 

 

“Genji would notice immediately,” Hanzo shook his head. “We have never had the kind of relationship to include casual teasing.” McCree raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, even though it was clear from his face that he didn’t believe him. 

 

“All the more reason to do it now, don’t you think?” he said instead. “See what you were missing out on?” 

 

Hanzo did not reply for a long moment. McCree seemed unphased, content to drink his tea. 

 

“One hundred credits if I make it through the whole list,” the archer said at last. “Also, you are not allowed to add any, and we will remove any that genuinely upset him.” 

 

“Done.” McCree agreed immediately. His smile was wild and bright, and it sent ripples of excitement through Hanzo’s chest and stomach. 

  
  


The next month passed by almost in a blur for Hanzo. It was unusual for him to wake up with any feeling other than the grey-grief-guilt mix that engulfed him since his first horrible fight with his brother. Perhaps it was the promise of purpose that the Recall offered. Perhaps it was the constant company of people who already knew the worst of his sins. Perhaps  _ (less likely, but still a possibility) _ it was the regular morning meetings with McCree. The cowboy brewed them each a cup of tea, and they drank together as the sun came up. Hanzo reported any progress he made on Genji’s list, and Athena vouched for him on those occasions when McCree was not there to hear it for himself. 

 

It was… surprisingly easy to talk to McCree. He moved large and took up space, but he was quiet and attentive rather than the kind of presence that dominated by volume and constant chatter. Hanzo found himself talking more just to keep those black eyes focused on him, to try and hear more stories in return, anything for the chance to see the pale gold rings light up around McCree’s irises when he was happy. McCree liked stories of comfort, of deep feelings, and little pleasures. 

 

_ (Hanzo liked McCree.) _

 

“And that’s the last time I saw the Grand Mesa base. Nearly would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those damn dress shoes,” McCree finished up one of his  _ (too rare) _ stories, and Hanzo found himself smiling. 

 

“It is hard to picture you in any other way than you are now,” he said. McCree scratched at his beard. 

 

“Sounds weird to hear you say that, to be honest,” McCree said. “Most people only see what they want to see. It’s why I started with all the…” he waved idly at the serape. “At least then I got a Look. I think there’s maybe one pic of me out there that ain’t blurred or warped.” 

 

“Can you at least see your own reflection?” Hanzo asked, equal parts curiosity and teasing. “Or is that why your beard is in such a state?” 

 

To his surprise, McCree blushed. 

 

“Pretty much, no,” he said. “But it’s fine. The glamor makes me presentable to the rest of the world. Present company excluded, of course.” Hanzo wanted to say something about the present company not minding in the slightest, be he held his tongue, and McCree moved on. “That’s enough about me. What about you? You got any tales of stupid shit you did when you were younger?” 

 

There was hunger in McCree’s dark eyes, and it had nothing to do with carnal pleasures. Hanzo recognized it immediately as the hunger for a life not his own, to know the world through another’s eyes, to reach beyond the fate waiting for him. He had felt that hunger himself in his youth.  _ (He still did. He always would.) _

 

“‘Stupid shit’ was more my brother’s purview than mine,” Hanzo sighed, and McCree’s face fell. “I was more of what you would call a ‘smart ass.’” 

 

Just like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, McCree smiled, and the gold rings flashed in his eyes. 

 

“Oh, really?” he all but purred. 

 

Hanzo spent the next half-hour recounting an “adventure” from his high school days where he and the heirs of a few neighboring clans set up an inter-school war with the use of a dozen rolls of electrical tape, a solar-powered Safety Sam standup, three cups of pudding, and a goat. 

 

“And the best part is that they blamed Genji for the whole thing,” Hanzo said, more than a little smug. McCree snickered, but somebody  _ (the worst somebody who could possibly overhear) _ behind him yelped. 

 

“Wait, what?” Genji stalked into the room, the ports on his armor glowing brighter with his increased heart rate. “That was you?” 

 

Hanzo’s expression immediately shuttered. A frown fell over his previous amusement. 

 

“There is no evidence,” he said. “And no one will testify.” 

 

“They brought up the goat thing for weeks!” Genji flailed. “I had to arrange an even bigger spectacle to get them to talk about anything else!”

 

“Joyriding in the principal’s car was hardly a spectacle in comparison,” Hanzo snorted. “Besides, I know you duplicated the part with the tape two years later. I saw the pictures. You looked like a knock-off  _ sentai _ someone designed when they were drunk.  _ Henshin _ .” He glanced quickly to McCree, who snorted into his mug. Genji went still. 

 

“Did you just…” With the visor on, it was impossible to see his eyes narrow, but his tone still carried suspicion and budding outrage clearly. “Did you--?!” 

 

“Damn. Looks like the jig is up.” McCree looked more amused than irritated. 

 

“Only because you folded at the first call.” Hanzo chided. “You said you were in black-ops! Did they not teach you counter-interrogation techniques?” 

 

“The only counter-interrogation techniques you learn in Blackwatch are ‘know nothing worth asking after’ or ‘die before they start asking in the first place.’” McCree shook his head. 

 

“Oi!” Genji crossed his arms and raised his visor so he could glare more effectively. “Did you put him up to this?” 

 

McCree and Hanzo exchanged glances over the table. 

 

“Double or nothing he catches you before me?” McCree grinned, eyes bright with gold. Hanzo answered by making a dive for the window. 

  
  


Time passed. Missions succeeded, failed, or fizzled out entirely before launch. Hanzo drank tea with McCree in the mornings. McCree started swinging by every week with a bottle of sake or bourbon to split. Hanzo watched for gold rings in the black and felt a thrum of pride every time he caught sight of them. 

 

It wasn’t that Hanzo forgot McCree’s unusual heritage as much as he slowly adjusted to the tiny quirks that accompanied it. The way McCree never stood directly in front of a mirrored surface if he didn’t have to. The way his gaze always had to search a second to meet that of someone who couldn’t see through his ‘glamor.’ The way he flirted like breathing: casually, to the point of obsequience, but heavily and with an edge of desperation during combat. 

 

_ (He wasn’t jealous. He  _ **_wasn’t_ ** _.) _

 

“Well, aren’t you just the loveliest sight for sore eyes,” McCee greeted Mercy as she zipped over to him with a healing beam. Mercy giggled and moved on. 

 

“Will wonders never cease,” he whistled as Mei locked the enemy forces in a hall with Junkrat’s riptire. Mei blushed. 

 

“You still got it!” he called after Soldier:76 as Jack raced by. Jack flipped him off, but not maliciously. 

 

“Pretty handy with that bow,” he purred at Hanzo, and Hanzo just about swallowed his tongue. “Wouldn’t mind seeing what else those hands can do.” 

 

“Must you?” Hanzo flushed, which McCree thankfully wouldn’t be able to see from the ground. McCree paused. 

 

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Just getting that ‘extra kick.’ I won’t hit you up if it makes you uncomfortable.” 

Hanzo’s ears burned. 

 

“I do not wish to be an afterthought in your train of generic compliments,” he said. McCree hummed dejectedly until Hanzo continued. “If you are going to flirt, at least make an effort.” 

 

There was a pause on the other end. He heard his comm switch to a private line. 

 

“Are you from Tennessee?” he asked. “‘Cause you’re the only ten I see.” Hanzo groaned. McCree laughed. 

 

“That was awful,” Hanzo said. “It was not even original, let alone clever or charming. You are disappointing your reputation.” 

 

McCree sobered slightly. 

 

“Clever or charming?” he asked. “Is that what you think of me?” 

 

“Certainly not  _ now,” _ hissed Hanzo. His blush deepened. 

 

“Just say the word, sweetheart, and I’ll charm you out of your socks.” 

 

“Ha!” 

 

“I could,” McCree insisted. “Why, just your physical blessings alone could fill a book. I could go on all day ‘bout the way your hair falls just so by your cheek, how your eyes catch the light like pure amber, the curve of your spine when you stand up after calling your dragons…” Hanzo nearly stopped breathing. “Shoulders, waist, hips… and that’s not even getting to your other fine qualities. Sharp mind, sharp tongue, sharp--” 

 

“Is that enough “kick” for you?” Hanzo interrupted, face blazing, pulse rushing, and quickly losing concentration on the mission. McCree hummed again-- no, that was definitely a groan, followed by a sigh. 

 

“That’ll do fine,” he rumbled. Six gunshots rang out above the chaos, so quickly they sounded like a single blast. McCree exhaled noisily over the line. “Thanks for that, Hanzo. I really appreciate you playing along.” 

 

Hanzo snorted, feeling his embarrassment fade. 

 

“If giving a few compliments recharges you so, what does receiving them do for you, I wonder?” 

 

McCree chuckled. 

 

“Sorry to disappoint, partner, but I don’t get anything off people admiring my aim, and that’s about the only part people see that’s really me. It don’t do a thing if it ain’t genuine.” 

 

( _ Your eyes, Hanzo thought, and your smile, the one that does not quite reach them.) _

 

“There are other senses than sight, McCree,” Hanzo chided instead, “and other qualities besides your aim that people may find appealing.” 

 

“Ah, is this another crack at my cleverness or charm?” 

 

Hanzo steeled himself, took a deep breath, and, after shooting an inconvenient enemy scout, said, “Your voice.” 

 

McCree, ironically, fell silent. 

 

“I do not know if your voice changes when other people hear it, but I hear a very pleasant baritone,” Hanzo continued blithely, as if he weren’t shooting enemy agents between compliments. “I enjoy listening to your after-action reports. You have an eye for detail that shines when you describe our tactics, and you manage to make even the back alleys of Dorado seem like an enchanting hideaway.” 

 

In an example of his lauded eloquence, McCree said, “I-- huh?” 

 

“The cadence of your voice is very relaxing.” 

 

“That’s… no one’s called it “relaxing” before. ‘Hypnotic,’ yeah, but not in a nice way.” 

 

“I would say more musical than hypnotic, but that may be another effect the dragons shrug off. Regardless, I doubt you would use any hypnosis when you are making additions to the shopping list.” 

 

“You’re calling my asking Athena for a good swiss cheese ‘musical?’ Are you having me on?” 

 

“Do you realize you cover the full scale in a single sentence?” Hanzo asked. McCree choked. “You have quite the range. I would enjoy hearing it taxed to its limits.” 

 

“Hanzo--!” McCree whined. Somewhere further down the battlefield, Hanzo saw the glow of midday suddenly explode across the night sky. An impossible thunder of gunfire echoed behind it, more shots than any old pistol ought to have held. 

 

Silence claimed the night. 

 

“McCree,” Winston asked hesitantly over the main comm line. “For future reference, how many bullets does your weapon hold?” 

 

“Six,” replied McCree, a little out of breath. 

 

“Right. Six. Of course.” Winston cleared his throat. “And. Um. Just for the record… how many did you just fire?” 

 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Winston.” McCree chided, just a little too sharply to be completely teasing. Winston flustered, stammered an apology, and allowed him to drop the subject. 

 

The rest of the mission proceeded like clockwork: whatever assault McCree made during the light show, it opened the path and pushed back the enemy enough to gain a significant foothold. Hanzo caught up with the rest of the team, picking off any enemies who had the bright idea of trying to sneak around behind the main group. By the time he caught up, they were already claiming the final objective. 

 

Hanzo did a quick scan to assure himself that his teammates were still in good health. His gaze lingered  _ (languished) _ over McCree, whose darker complexion was nevertheless rosy and flush with vitality.  _ (Was he  _ **_blushing_ ** _? No, it must have been exertion. That put all  _ **_sorts_ ** _ of ideas in Hanzo’s head.) _

 

McCree glanced over at Hanzo and smiled weakly.  _ (Seriously, was he blushing, or just standing too close to the payload? How frustrating.) _

 

“Did the tactic work?” Hanzo asked. 

 

McCree blinked. Some of the brightness went out of his expression, gold irises fading back into the black. The smile stayed, but without the brightness, it seemed… shallower. More like the image of a smile, caught but passed. 

 

“Like a charm,” McCree assured him. He certainly sounded the same. Still, Hanzo watched him turn his attention back to the payload and got the distinct feeling he’d said the wrong thing. 

 

The thought gnawed at him through the entire trip back to base. He stared at McCree sitting a little ways down the line of seats, tracing the angles of his jaw and nose until his fingers itched for a pen like they had not done in years. He was filled with two strong and ultimately competing desires: one, to capture the line of McCree’s throat as he leaned his head back and immortalize it in ink, and two, to trace that same line with his tongue and leave a trail of tiny, bite-size bruises up it. 

 

If McCree took any notice of his attention, he didn’t so much as open one eye to return it. 

 

Hanzo held his breath and sighed. 

 

By the time they returned to base, he already had a plan to put the gold back in McCree’s eyes. It took him several hours browsing a very specific part of the internet, and a few more to set up a safe delivery option, and he lost the battle of wills against a few other tempting purchases, but in the end he was quite pleased with his plan. One could even say he was  _ smug _ when he showed up on McCree’s doorstep with a discreet brown box and a telling grin. McCree eyed the package warily, but he stepped aside to grant Hanzo entrance. 

 

“Look, I wasn’t really expecting you to change your mind. I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured--” he started. Hanzo interrupted with a soft scoff. 

 

“These are not sex toys, McCree,” he said. “I have nothing against your nature.” ( _ The amount of time he spent looking up information on the wrongful persecution of incubi would attest to that.) _ “I simply do not wish to share my inner thoughts because of sex.” 

 

McCree swallowed hard. 

 

“Fair enough,” he said. “Mind if I ask what’s in the box, then?” 

 

Hanzo set the box in question on the table and cracked it open. 

 

“Help me prank my brother,” he said, pulling out a mini-spray canister that would, with a single spritz, apply a six-inch color image of D.Va’s bunny logo to any reasonably solid surface. He demonstrated on the side of the box; the plunger depressed with a soft hiss, and the picture instantly appeared. 

 

McCree stared. Then he blinked. Then he grinned, slowly but ruthlessly. 

 

“How many of those have you got, and in what logos?” 

 

Hanzo smiled back and tipped the box onto the table. 

 

“Take a look.” 

  
  


It took some finesse and a good deal more finagling, but each of them could carry four of the sprays at a time, Hanzo equipped himself with D.Va’s bunny logo, Lúcio’s frog logo, a neon green kanji stamp reading “god of war”, and--to McCree’s annoyance--a blocky text “BAMF” that resembled McCree’s belt buckle. McCree had to make do with a pachimari, a bullseye, a pretty golden lotus reminiscent of Zenyatta, and a cloud that matched the pattern on Hanzo’s gi. 

 

“First to all four wins,” McCree said. “If we don’t get that far, then whoever gets caught is automatically the loser.” 

 

“Do you really think you can be more subtle than me?” Hanzo laughed good naturedly. “He will hear you coming from a mile away.” 

 

“That’s fine,” grinned McCree. “Better than fine, really.” He leaned in close, flicked his wrist, and the sprayer vanished from his grasp. Hanzo barely caught sight of it disappearing up McCree’s sleeve. “Sleight of hand is all about misdirection, after all.” McCree’s smile widened as he flourished his other hand, revealing one of Hanzo’s sprays. The BAMF one, to be exact. Hanzo didn’t bother checking his pocket; he snatched back the prize and gave McCree a warning look. 

 

“No cheating,” he said. 

 

“Never on you,” McCree agreed. Hanzo wondered if he meant it the way it sounded, then chided himself for thinking that.  _ (Of course he did not, how could he when they weren’t together?) _

 

Then McCree stepped back, smile pulling more playful than profound, and Hanzo was left to shiver in the empty space. 

 

“All right. It’s on.” 

 

McCree, Hanzo discovered, had an advantage. A near insurmountable advantage. While Hanzo did indeed possess superior skills and training in the art of stealth and deception, he had forgotten one critical fact:  _ so did Genji _ . Hanzo could move silently, climb walls to reach impossible angles, and hide in plain sight if he had to, but both he and his brother were taught to recognize those same techniques in action. He managed to tag Genji  _ once _ , with the kanji stamp, on Genji’s back as the passed going into the dining hall. Lena’s laughter and Reinhardt’s booming voice covered the hiss of the dispenser.

 

McCree got  _ three _ . Almost at once. 

 

His advantage quickly became apparent: he was a friendly and physically affectionate bastard. The team was already used to him drifting into their space, giving friendly pats on the back or casual hugs. He was respectful of boundaries, but within them he milked every indulgence they would afford him, so no one even batted an eyelid when he all but draped himself across Genji one evening. 

 

“I swear Jack picks all the training sims with the flatlands just to spite me,” he sighed. “Damn showoff likes running everywhere just because his knees ain’t given out yet. Shit.” He dragged out the “sh” on his curse, hiding the hiss of the spray. A pretty lotus appeared on Genji’s upper shoulder, just under McCree’s hand. 

 

“Perhaps it is his way to encourage you to stop smoking,” Genji suggested, oblivious to his new “tattoo.” 

 

McCree scoffed. A red bullseye appeared on Genji’s back as the cowboy pushed himself upright. 

 

“He knows better than to passive-aggressive at me,” he snorted. “And if he forgot, well, I could use a new ashtray. Wanna help me steal his visor?” 

 

Genji threw back his head and laughed. McCree glanced across the room and caught Hanzo’s eye. A devious smirk curled his  _ (full, delicious) _ lips as he waved his hand over Genji’s shoulder, taunting with the opportunity to lay the third spray in as many minutes. No new color appeared, and McCree dragged gold-lined eyes back to Genji in time for the other man to heartily slap him on the back. 

 

“It is good to see your audacity still burns,” Genji crowed. 

“Heck, if thirteen years of Reyes couldn’t stomp it out, what chance does Morrison have?” McCree retaliated by slapping Genji’s ass. Genji caught him in a headlock. Hanzo could see the bright pink and green spray of the pachimari when his brother bent over. 

 

_ (Of all the nerve…) _

 

McCree wrestled his way free and pulled back with a deep, throaty chuckle that sent something soft fluttering all the way to Hanzo’s stomach and below. 

 

“I give, I give,” he said, though the look he shot Hanzo communicated the opposite. Hanzo buried his face in a towel to spare himself the pleasant agony of McCree’s brilliant smile. 

 

It didn’t work. The curve of his lips painted the back of Hanzo’s eyelids, and he found himself trying to replicate the exact pattern of summer-sun and autumn-moon gold in McCree’s eyes as he laughed. 

 

He let out a muffled sigh. 

 

“Hanzo?” Genji asked.  _ (Of course his brother was still standing there. Of course he heard. Of course.) _ “Are you alright?” Hanzo flinched as the too-warm metal of Genji’s hand came to rest on his bare shoulder. Genji, of course, noticed and pulled away again. 

 

Hanzo’s gut immediately turned inside out, upside down, and threatened to throw his entire digestive system in reverse. 

 

“I was used to your hands being cold,” he said by way of apology.  _ (He needed to work on that, he knew. Two words. He couldn’t even say two simple words. I’m. Sorry.) _ “You used to steal my mittens.” 

 

Genji snorted. 

 

“You picked a rather extreme way to remedy my thefts,” he said. Hanzo flinched again, this time drowning all his earlier joys and desires under the bile-tide of his guilt. 

 

**< It whispered in his head like some kind of horrible phantom: should not have come, should not have stayed, should not have let Genji walk away from their last fight without burying his sword in your throat.>**

 

_ (He couldn’t stop it. He never could, but it was especially cruel after his latest “game” with McCree.) _

 

**< How dare he play. How dare he laugh. How dare he smile. Unworthy.>**

 

“Is that what happened to my favorite red sweater?” McCree interjected suddenly, talking over the insidious guilt. “You know, the one with the extra long sleeves?” 

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Genji said in an unconvincing tone. 

 

“Well, that suddenly explains why you had red fuzzies stuck to your vents and armor for like, two months.” McCree leaned over and nudged Hanzo in the ribs. “What do you want to bet he went running around with his arms out behind him so the sleeves flapped in the wind?” Hanzo couldn’t help but snort in amusement, and Genji squawked a protest. 

 

“I did not!” 

 

“Ooo, methinks the ninja doth protest too much!” McCree leered. Hanzo tried to keep from choking on air as Genji flailed at McCree. “Help me out here, Hanzo. Is it an aerodynamic thing? Cultural context? Something to do with the dragons?” 

 

“I am afraid it is just Genji being a nerd.” 

 

“ _ I’m  _ a nerd?!” Genji gaped. “You made a Pokémon reference during the last mission!” 

 

“You cannot prove anything,” Hanzo smirked. Genji turned to the computer. 

 

“Athena, please replay the audio from the last mission’s comm logs. I think it was about three minutes into the fight.” 

 

“Scanning conversation for context. Please hold,” said Athena. It was unnecessary for her to announce the process, so she must have found something good and was just drawing it out to torture Hanzo. Athena was rather protective of the original Overwatch team, and while every humanoid member of the crew received the “don’t murder my brother, please, I know he’s difficult” talk from Genji, it appeared he forgot to extend the anti-hazing instructions to the resident AI. 

 

The audio file picked up in the middle of Hanzo’s summoning yell as the mics struggled to adapt to the changes in volume. The dragons took the field with roars. Present day Hanzo grimaced as his past self chuckled. 

 

_ “I choose you, spirit dragon.”  _ Past Hanzo said with absolute sincerity. 

 

Genji spread his hands, inviting applause. McCree gave him a sarcastic golf clap. 

 

“You’re still a nerd,” he said. “You quote Kamen Rider. Hell, you made  _ me _ watch Kamen Rider so I’d get the jokes.” 

 

“Consider your life to be enriched,” Genji said magnanimously. 

“Hanzo, back me up.” 

 

Hanzo saw an opening. 

 

“Much as it pains me to say this, I agree with Genji.” He moved closer to his brother, intending to add a spray so that McCree would not beat him by such a painful margin. Genji, however, continued to be uncooperative with Hanzo’s plans.  _ (Story of his life, really.) _

 

“You hate Kamen Rider,” Genji said suspiciously. “It’s your least favorite sentai show. You always critique their fighting!” 

 

“They overextend on all their choreography!” Hanzo said. “Besides, that does not mean the franchise is entirely without merit--” his attempt to grab his brother by the shoulder was reckless and flawed, which was why Genji caught him immediately. 

 

“What are you up to?” He demanded. 

 

Hanzo sputtered. 

“Nothing!” 

 

There was nowhere to hide the sprayer already loaded in his sleeve. Genji caught sight of it and seized his wrist, pulling the device free. 

 

“What is--” he managed to hit the button, and a spray of pink pigment appeared on his face mask. McCree choked on his laughter. 

 

“Busted,” the cowboy sing-songed. Hanzo shot him a withering glare, and Genji turned to him incredulously. 

 

“Did  _ you _ put him up to this?!” 

 

McCree raised his hands defensively. 

 

“Now see here, this was entirely his idea--” 

 

Hanzo took advantage of the distraction to break free from Genji’s grip and bolt. In a moment of ill-planned magnanimity, he grabbed McCree and dragged him along for the run. Genji must have decided not to chase them, because there was no other way they could have outrun a cyborg ninja. Still, Hanzo kept his grip on McCree’s arm and did not stop until they were well away, tumbling behind some old storage crates in a forgotten storage room. 

 

McCree wheezed, sprawled on his back with a smile carved on his face. 

 

“Mr. Hotshot Assassin got himself caught!” He gasped out. What little breath he managed to recover he immediately lost to laughing. 

 

“Shut up!” Hanzo hissed through his own giggles. “You could have placed all four in five minutes. How else was I supposed to catch up?” 

 

McCree buffed his nails against his chest. 

 

“What can I say, honey? I got the magic touch.” 

 

_ (“I’ll bet you do.”) _

 

“What was that?” McCree propped himself up on his elbows, and Hanzo cursed his suddenly external internal monologue. 

 

“Nothing,” said Hanzo, feeling his face and ears burn all the same. His heart pounded in his chest, trying to escape the embarrassment. McCree just smiled at him, soft and warm and pretty as a picture. Hanzo wanted to capture that expression forever. 

 

“Have it your way, darling.” 

 

Companionable silence, if only for a moment. 

 

“I cannot believe you sprayed my brother’s backside.” 

 

McCree’s laughter could be heard all the way to the other end of the base.

  
  


More time passed. More missions, more training, more tea, more whiskey, more sake. More mornings stretching to afternoon before they parted ways, more evenings stretching back for dawn before they retreated to their own corners. They took meals together. They made each other laugh. 

A flurry of winter holidays passed, religious and secular celebrations blurring amidst the sheer variety of observations the team shared. McCree gave most of the team hand-knit scarves that bore their logos, images taken from the sprays Hanzo found. 

 

“I didn’t know you knit,” Hana said, wrapping her pink bunny scarf around her neck like a designer pashmina. 

 

“It’s a good hobby for people who got to keep their hands busy in order to concentrate,” he said. “Useful and productive skill, too. Plus you can kill a guy with a decent size knitting needle if you gotta.” Hana gave him a Look. “Plastic ones will snap if they ain’t thick enough. Metal don’t have that problem, but it’s more conspicuous.” Hana’s Look intensified. McCree burst out laughing. “I’m just kiddin’ you. I never killed anyone with knitting needles.” 

 

“Good, because murder-gib would make this a lot less cute.” She snuggled into the soft yarn and wandered off. Hanzo slipped into the space she vacated. 

 

“Crochet hook?” he asked. 

 

“Crochet hook,” McCree confirmed. 

 

“They always think the blunted end makes it so much less dangerous.” Hanzo shook his head. 

 

“Easier to hide, I’ll tell you.” McCree hummed. “Anyhow, here, I made you something too.” 

 

Hanzo startled, but a pleased flush reddened his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

 

“You did not have to--” 

 

“Everyone’s getting one, so don’t think you can wiggle out of it.” He pushed the package closer, paper crinkling as he did. Hanzo unwrapped the gift cautiously; he had his suspicions based on the gifts his teammates received, but they did little to prepare him for the actual contents. 

 

He pulled out a loop of fine, ice-blue cashmere. Across it, two serpentine dragons chased each other’s tails. They were identical --nearly identical, he realized. One had a stitch of bright blue for an eye, the other had a stitch of electric green. Both dragons were somehow smiling, turning the destructive cycle of the Shimada crest into a playful game of tag. As an infinity scarf, the game would last forever, both dragons on the cusp of winning. 

 

Hanzo looked up at McCree, whose face showed only his concern that Hanzo would like his present. 

 

“It is wonderful,” he said, slipping it on. McCree beamed.  _ (The expression suited him. He had a face perfect for smiling. Hanzo wanted him to smile more often.) _

 

__ “I wasn’t too sure you’d like the color,” Jesse admitted, “but you look like someone who’d look good in blue.” Hanzo’s cheeks felt warmer, and he buried them in the soft material. It was like kissing a cloud. 

 

“It is wonderful,” he repeated. “Thank you.” He looked down at the roll of paper he had with McCree’s name on it, and his heart seized up.  **< How could he offer McCree the paltry gift he made after receiving ** **_this_ ** **? McCree’s gift was thoughtful, well-planned, and personalized. The pattern of the dragons was too accurate to be anything except custom made, and cashmere was a fair bit more expensive than the standard yarn used in everyone else’s scarves. It was too nice. Too much. >**

 

Then, of course, McCree noticed the paper. 

 

“Got something for your brother? I think he’s still around here somewhere,” he said, turning to look for green lights. But Hanzo shook his head and thrust the paper towards McCree. 

 

“A gift. For you.” 

 

**< Oh yes. Absolutely brilliant. A stunning conversationalist.>**

 

McCree lit up like the sun. 

 

“For me? You didn’t have to, sug--” he unrolled the page, mouth freezing halfway through a word. Hanzo felt like dying. 

 

 **< This was the worst idea he ever had; Genji didn’t count, since that was someone else’s idea, and he was just the fool that went along with it. How could he have handed ****_McCree_** _that-- >_

 

“Is this… me?” McCree whispered, staring down at the picture. It was only graphite, but soft strokes of shadow laid out McCree’s face in the warm grin he offered anyone who’d speak to him for more than half a second. Hanzo caught the edge of his cheekbones and the wild brush of his beard, the generous curve of his lips and the sharp line of his nose. The brim of his hat cast dim contrast over his eyes, but Hanzo had given him his brightened irises, which stood out like tiny crescent moons. 

 

“As I see you,” Hanzo nodded. “I checked with Genji, and he sees much the same, so I suspect it is at least somewhat accurate.” 

 

McCree reached up and touched his face, tracing with wonder the same lines Hanzo drew. It was several minutes before he looked up, but Hanzo was content to watch him in his distraction, and when he finally regained the gunslinger’s attention, there was a rueful tenderness there. 

 

“You were right,” he chuckled. “My beard is a mess.” 

 

Hanzo didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all. McCree seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, and when it didn’t come, he clapped Hanzo on the back.    
  
“Thanks, Hanzo. This means a lot to me.” 

 

January’s grey and gloomy weather dragged Hanzo down into despair as he, like every other artist in existence, spiraled into the existential debate of wondering why he had presented a friend with his art. McCree, blinded by elation, showed the picture to everyone on base. Twice. Three times, if they couldn’t get away fast enough. Every time, Hanzo saw more and more imperfections in his work; he hadn’t quite got the warmth of McCree’s smile, the lines around his eyes, the pull of his cheeks. The angle was slightly off, the proportion just a touch wrong. He wanted to rip the picture out of McCree’s hands and burn it, but that would make McCree  _ sad _ . 

 

February only made things worse as the world exploded into a wash of crimson and pink. 

 

_ Valentine’s Day. _

 

For a vigilante justice organization, there was a frightening number of relationships among the ranks. Hanzo could hardly walk down the hall without hearing some duet of giggles, groans, or other evidence of pleasures. That would have been awkward enough, but to compound the issue, his brother was pining over Lúcio. 

 

Rather loudly. 

 

It gave Hanzo a headache. 

 

**< It made his soul crumble under the guilt. How easily would it have been for Genji to pursue his affections in a completely organic body, with an unscarred face? What doubts could have possibly plagued his brother’s heart if Hanzo had not cut it out?>**

 

“He smiled at me today in training,” Genji said. Hanzo, still making some pretense at meditating, only grunted. “I deflected a missile that would have hit him directly. He said, ‘thanks, man’ and then he smiled.” Hanzo grunted again. “He has a beautiful smile.” 

 

Hanzo had distinct flashbacks to their youth, listening to Genji wax rhapsodic about his latest lover while he was supposed to be training. The thought twisted, acid-nostalgia-guilt, and he stayed silent. 

 

“Do you think he meant ‘thanks  _ man,’ _ or ‘ _ thanks _ man?’” 

 

Hanzo opened his eyes and rolled them skyward. 

 

“I think he meant, ‘thanks man,’” he said. Genji smacked him with a pillow. 

 

“He’s so hard to read!” 

“He smiles all the time.” 

 

“Exactly!”

 

Hanzo gave up on meditation.

 

“He most likely appreciated your intervention.” 

 

“Ugh. You are no help.” Genji flopped backwards and sulked, face buried in the pillow.

 

“I never have been,” Hanzo replied. He intended it to come out as a dry retort, but the miasma in his chest poisoned it and made it bitter. Fortunately, Genji was too focused on his plight to notice. It was… a small comfort that his brother could relax around him to complain of simple things and be swept up in the problems of his own life. 

 

**< Unworthy. He didn’t deserve that trust.>**

 

Oddly enough, another thought interrupted the stream of toxic self loathing as it started. 

 

{He would do better, this time, and prove himself worthy of it.} It didn’t exactly sound like McCree --rather, it sounded like himself when he was  _ with _ McCree, drinking bourbon on the rooftop at sunset and thinking about what he’d bring next week. It was was the voice of someone moving forward. Heartened however slightly by that thought, he shuffled around to face his brother and give him his full attention. 

 

“Lúcio is naturally friendly and polite to all his teammates,” he said, and then, over Genji’s groan, he went on, “but you are not.” 

 

Genji sat up to glare at him. “Oi!” 

 

“You are more reserved than how I remember you from our youth. You wear your faceplate in public, and you save your jokes for your close acquaintances. Perhaps he is the one struggling to read you,” Hanzo said. “Your teacher helped you find peace and balance, but they serve as an additional mask to hide your attention. You should speak plainly to him, and make your intentions known.” 

 

Genji stared at Hanzo, who felt his resolve crumbling in the face of the unreadable tranquility he just mentioned.

 

“You mean… just… tell him?” 

 

Hanzo felt the urge to fidget. For being the one giving the advice, he felt strangely judged. 

 

“If you would prefer to spend Valentine’s Day whining about your crush to your brother…” he trailed off with a shrug. “Or you could seek out the DJ and see if he has plans.” 

 

Genji leapt to his feet, then hesitated. 

 

“What if he does?” 

 

“Then at least you will know,” said Hanzo. “You can come back here and we will find some way to distract you from your broken heart.” 

 

Genji did not look convinced. 

 

“Mario Party,” Hanzo conceded, already dying inside at the thought of the horrifically competitive minigames. “But first, go and find out.” 

 

Genji’s arms twitched. Hanzo tensed slightly, unsure if he was expecting a hug or a punch, but all his brother did was pat him on the shoulder. 

 

“Thank you, brother,” said Genji, and then he darted off to go find Lúcio. 

 

Hanzo waited a good hour to see if his brother would return, but it seemed that he would be spared the hellish fate of Mario Party for the time being. He was just about to settle back in to make a proper attempt at meditation when there was a knock at his door. 

 

Ah, well. Poor Genji. Perhaps they could commiserate about ill-fated romances... 

 

“Come in,” he called. The door slid open, but it wasn’t his brother on the other side. Instead, he looked up to see McCree, dressed in sweats and a tanktop and with his hand and prosthetic wrapped for the gym. The slight blur that hung around him seemed even more pronounced by the way he practically vibrated with nervous energy. 

 

“McCree?” Hanzo blinked. The cowboy all but jumped at his name. He ran a hand through his hair and gave Hanzo a shaky smile. 

 

“Hey. Uh. I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you? I mean. It’s not a favor, per se, but more of a mutually beneficial opportunity.” 

 

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. 

 

“I am waiting for Genji,” he said cautiously, “but if I can help you while I wait, then I shall.” 

 

McCree chuckled. 

“Don’t think you ought to stay up for him, partner,” he said. “He and Lúcio are having a… let’s call it a ‘heated discussion,’ shall we?” 

 

“Oh.” Hanzo blinked.  _ “Oh.” _

 

__ _ (Well, congratulations Genji. At least one of them was having a good evening.) _

 

“That’s kinda why I’m here.” McCree squirmed. “You know how I can get a good buzz off of people being all…” he started to make a hand gesture, flushed, and put his hand back down. “Er. Yeah. Around me?” 

 

Hanzo nodded slowly, already seeing where this was going. 

 

“Well,” McCree’s voice cracked slightly.  _ (Hanzo had the brief but intense wonder of what it might sound like after McCree shouted himself raw from pleasure). _ “Y’see, there’s about twenty or so odd people here on base right now, and nearly a dozen of them are engaged in  _ some _ kind of shenanigans of that sort. And well. I feel like I chased a bottle of caffeine pills with a pot of that black death Fareeha calls coffee. I don’t suppose…” 

 

Stalwart, steady McCree hesitated. 

 

_ (Oh yes.) _

 

**< Oh no.>**

 

{ Oh boy. }

 

“... you’d like to spar with me?” 

 

Hanzo wasn’t sure what his expression looked like to McCree, but it caused the cowboy’s frenetically hopeful face to fall. 

 

“Nevermind, I won’t bother you none--” he stepped back, out of the doorway, and Hanzo had to lunge to catch him before he left. 

 

“I will spar!” he all but shouted, and then managed to get his composure again. “Just give me a few minutes to prepare?” 

 

The gold rings around McCree’s eyes were so bright they practically glowed. 

 

“Sure thing, sugar.” 

 

Later, as they faced each other on the mats, Hanzo realized he had never fought hand-to-hand against McCree before. They completed missions together, and tactical and targeting simulations, but he never saw the cowboy do more than throw a debilitating left straight with metal prosthetic, which was admittedly usually enough to knock out most human enemies. 

 

“Go easy on me to start with, will you, Hanzo?” McCree asked, shifting his weight into a poor approximation of a boxer’s stance. “I don’t have that fancy flipping training you and Genji had.” 

 

“Nonsense. I intend to go quite hard on you.”  _ (He cursed his choice of words. Damn the double entendre). _ “To give you anything less than my best would be disrespectful to you.”

 

“You saying you respect me, Hanzo?” McCree blinked.

 

“I would have thought it obvious by now.” Hanzo stayed in proper stance, just in case. He had seen McCree’s wiles before, even if he had not faced them himself. But McCree just smiled. 

 

“Guess I just wanted to hear it from the dragon’s mouth, as it were.” He rolled his neck and settled into a more stable position, albeit one just as informal. “Alright then, let’s dance.” 

 

A full minute passed without either man crossing the distance to the other. There were small movements: a foot sliding an inch here, a fist lifting an inch there, weight redistributing from one foot to the other, shoulders turning to accommodate, but neither struck first. Hanzo’s thoughts were surprisingly quiet as he watched McCree, who gave nothing away. 

 

“What’s the matter? I thought you had energy to burn?” Hanzo risked a taunt. McCree just shook his head slightly. “If we were going to be still, we could have stayed and meditated in my room.” 

 

“I can think of several things I’d like to do in your room, darling, but meditating’s not one of them.” 

 

Hanzo telegraphed a flying kick to cover up the following roundhouse; McCree blocked both, then came back with a simple straight-hook combo. Hanzo deflected the straight and dodged the hook, but he was unprepared for the surprise knee afterwards. The move was more kickboxing or muay thai than McCree’s previous attacks implied might be likely. Hanzo barely managed to block and push out of the way, out of range. 

 

He gave McCree a questioning look. McCree answered with a hangdog grin and a little chuckle. 

 

They clashed again. Hanzo brought an open palm strike that nearly staggered McCree, while McCree managed to catch his arm and flip him. Hanzo landed in a crouch instead of on his back, then knocked McCree’s feet out from under him with a sweep. McCree landed heavily, and Hanzo smirked down at him. 

 

Another round. And another. And another. Hanzo found McCree’s moves to be an eclectic mix, but his style was fairly simple: he either took advantage of his reach, or he combined direct attacks from one style with complex follow-ups from another. 

 

McCree got back to his feet and wiped sweat from his brow. 

 

“I figured I wouldn’t hold out too well against you,” he said. “Let’s see how well you fare against someone else, though.” 

 

Hanzo was about to ask him what he meant when McCree’s whole body language suddenly changed. He dropped almost into a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. Hanzo had a flash of pure cognitive dissonance, simultaneously seeing McCree  _ and _ Genji in the stance. McCree gave a little whoop and lunged at him in a way that reminded Hanzo all too much of Genji’s dash. He wasn’t as fast as Genji, and he certainly didn’t use a wakizashi, but Hanzo felt as if his lungs had been cut open anyway. 

 

“What--” he gasped, and McCree turned around, stance changing again. Hanzo recognized it as Fareeha’s from a few of their matches; instinctively, he moved to counter. Fareeha fought with strong, direct strikes, much like McCree, but without the surprises at the end. She hammered on with raw strength to break down her opponents’ defenses. Just as Hanzo was settling into the rhythm to deflect her strikes with ease, McCree changed again. Torbjörn’s boxing, Jack’s nameless, relentless mishmash of wrestling and “punching it in the head,” and some more brutal style which McCree didn’t even seem to realize he’d employed until he was already spinning around, about to drive his fist into Hanzo’s face. He pulled back as soon as the realization hit, fast enough to trip over his own two feet. 

 

“McCree!” Hanzo cried out, seeing the man crumple to the floor and not rise immediately. 

 

“Sorry about that, sugar,” said McCree, shoulders heaving. “Got a little carried away.” 

 

“Are you alright?” Hanzo asked. 

 

“Right as rain.” McCree nodded, shuddered, and finally flipped onto his back. Hanzo knelt beside him. 

 

“You should cool down properly,” he said. McCree made a face, but he helped him to his feet and guided him through some stretches that would keep him from cramping up later. Darkness settled in McCree’s eyes, and Hanzo sought a way to drive it out. “You are very talented at mimicry. Is that a part of your nature, or a learned skill?”

 

“Little bit of column A, little bit of column B.” McCree replied. “Mostly it’s just for fun. I’ve been told I’m a real hoot at impressions, though.” 

 

“I do not doubt it,” said Hanzo. “I was very surprised when you imitated my brother.” 

 

McCree rubbed the back of his neck. There was no light left in his eyes.    
  
__ _ (No, come back.) _

 

“Yeah, sorry about that. He’s usually my go-to for a change-up. People don’t really look at a cowboy and think, ‘martial arts,’ you know?” 

 

“It was not that I thought you were incapable,” Hanzo shook his head, “but rather that you did such a good job of emulating him. Your balance must be rather different, given the height difference.” 

 

McCree laughed a little, but the gold did not return. 

 

“I’m never going to get over the fact that you two can actually see me. You even did a pic!” He ran his hand over his beard and looked pensive. “You’re a real good artist. Probably made me look better than I actually do.” 

 

__ _ (Hanzo had to press his lips together to keep from screaming praises about McCree’s jawline or nose in his face. How could he confess that, even if he could not see McCree, he would have learned to look for him anyway? How could anyone bear to know him and not actually see him?) _

 

McCree sighed. His shoulders slumped. 

 

“Do Reinhardt,” Hanzo said abruptly. 

 

McCree blinked. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” 

 

“You said you were capable of doing impressions. Show me. Do Reinhardt. Or is he beyond your skill?” Hanzo raised his chin in a challenge. A smile--a real smile--carved its way across McCree’s face. He shifted his weight to a broader stance, threw back his head, and puffed up his chest. 

 

“HA!” he boomed in a rough, deep voice. “NO CHALLENGE AT ALL! GIVE ME A REAL TEST!” 

 

Hanzo found himself grinning as he threw out people for McCree to impersonate: teammates, celebrities, even that hacker they kept almost-catching. McCree’s tongue rolled easily through her Spanish taunts, lighting up Hanzo’s nerves delightfully. 

 

“Any other brain-busters up your sleeve?” McCree put his hands on his hips and smirked triumphantly, confident in his win. 

 

“Do me,” Hanzo said. 

 

_ (Oh yes, please do.) _

 

**< Crude.>**

 

{ Oh, shut up. }

 

Hanzo managed, somehow, to continue as if he weren’t in the process of swallowing his own tongue. 

 

“You have imitated everyone else on the team except me,” he clarified. “Or have we at last met the limit of your skill?” 

 

The smile melted off McCree’s face, and for a moment, Hanzo thought he overstepped. His heart froze behind his ribs, and the ice spread through his blood. McCree’s eyes narrowed; the irises were pale gold, an eclipse corona around the moon’s shadow. 

 

“You do not have to--” Hanzo started, but McCree held up a hand. 

 

“I do what I must,” he replied, barely more than a whisper. “The outcome was never in doubt.” He pulled his posture into something proud and regal, a lord on a mountaintop looking down at his subjects with a benevolent eye. Any more intense and it would have been a parody, but McCree managed to keep the balance of severity and serenity. His impression was of a powerful man, one who carried the weight of, if not the world, at least the awareness of the way in which he affected it. 

 

Hanzo had never felt so exposed in all his life. 

 

It was a relief when McCree finally dropped the pose, looking at Hanzo through lowered lashes. 

 

“Was that okay?” 

 

Hanzo took three quick steps into McCree’s space. The man tensed, but held fast. He was prepared for a blow. He was not prepared for Hanzo to drape an arm over his shoulders, lean on him companionably, and tip an imaginary hat. 

 

“Well now,” said Hanzo in his best attempt at McCree’s drawl, “what have we got here?” 

 

It was not, strictly speaking, a good  _ impression _ . Hanzo had trouble shaking his own syntax and couldn’t pitch his voice down as far as McCree’s without sounding like he was about to start yelling. He couldn’t quite get the drawl on the same vowels, either, so it didn’t sound quite as close of an impression as Jesse’s. 

 

It was, however, a  _ good _ impression. The McCree that Hanzo portrayed was friendly and gentle, deliberate with every movement and careful to respond to the slightest hint of a boundary so as not to cross it. When he half-draped himself over McCree, it was because they were comfortable with one another, because sharing space was pleasant. Welcome. Wanted, by the way McCree leaned into him. Hanzo poured all the warmth he possessed into the smile he gave McCree. 

 

“Watch and learn,” Hanzo squeezed McCree’s shoulder and pulled back. He straightened up the way he’d seen McCree do right before he drew his gun and shot six people dead. With a look of fierce concentration, he drew finger guns and aimed for McCree’s heart. “Bang!” 

 

McCree played along, grabbing his chest and staggering exaggeratedly. Both men descended into giggles. 

 

“You forgot my catch phrase,” McCree teased when he finally caught his breath. 

 

“I did not forget it, I just did not wish to mess it up,” Hanzo corrected imperiously, or at least as imperiously as he could while he was still on the verge of a giggle loop. McCree wiped a tear from his eye, where the gold irises shone like harvest moons. 

 

He kept the memory of that light wrapped up in his heart, long after they finally retreated from the training room and parted ways. 

 

It was the memory of those eyes that drove him across rooftops and skywalks some time later, trying to find McCree before the enemy did in an icy Russian factory. 

 

“Don’t mind me,” McCree gritted into the commline, unable to keep the pain out of his voice. “Get to the point!” 

 

“They have the point well in hand,” Hanzo said. He took a shot at a straggling reinforcement trying to cross the field. There was a brief gurgle. Hanzo ignored it and moved on.

 

“Hanzo…” McCree hissed, but Hanzo already had his location marker in view, and nothing as simple as a wall was going to keep him from the ( _ his) _ cowboy. His? Oh, damn. 

 

The proximity alert on the point went off. Hanzo hissed a curse and released the dragons in the direction of the objective. The alarm went silent. He scrambled into a small control room and found McCree propped up by a computer console in a pool of his own blood. What field medicine Hanzo knew told him McCree would need medical assistance, and fast, if he wanted to get out of Russia alive. 

 

There was a medical gel dispenser in the room just below them. If he could get McCree down to it… 

 

**< Reinforcements.> ** He heard shouts from just beyond the foyer, a dozen pounding footsteps.  **< Our team will be overrun.>**

 

Hanzo knelt by McCree’s side.

 

“There is a health pack below us. Do you think you can get to it?” 

 

McCree’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, and so, so dark. 

 

“Han…” He tried to shake his head and only managed to roll it to the side. “I’m so tired. Lemme…” 

 

_ (Well, suggested Hanzo’s unending thirst, determined to find some kind of silver lining, you know  _ one _ way to give him a boost.) _

 

**< This is hardly the time or place!>**

 

{ Do you have any better ideas? }

 

“McCree! Open your eyes!” Hanzo snarled. “McCree! ...McCree?” The cowboy let out a soft, pained sigh. “McCree, may I kiss you?” 

 

_ That _ got his eyes to open. His brows knitted together in confusion and no small amount of pain. 

 

“You don’t gotta,” he rallied. “I’ll… get…” 

 

“And if I want to?” 

 

McCree’s expression did not change, but in the darkness, gold bloomed like dawn. He nodded ever so slightly. Hanzo leaned forward and pressed their lips together. 

 

It was sweet, at first. Chaste, almost. But McCree gasped at the pressure, and Hanzo pushed closer, licking his way into the warmth of his mouth. He poured his hunger into the kiss, trying to pass even a fraction of the lightning McCree ignited in his blood back to its source. 

 

McCree groaned; Hanzo bit his lip. McCree whimpered, Hanzo sucked it swollen. Hanzo finally pulled back for air. McCree’s eyes  _ burned _ . 

 

“Hanzo,” he said, voice low and full of longing. 

 

“Health pack, first,” Hanzo replied. “Then the mission. And then… then we will speak.” 

 

McCree nodded and climbed to his feet, far steadier than should have been possible for a man who was laid out near unconsciousness mere moments earlier. 

 

“Buckle up,” he grinned. “This gunslinger’s loaded!” 

 

They dropped easily to the floor. McCree grunted softly but did not falter, and Hanzo kept watch while he applied the biotic gel to his wound. Health restored, there was no mistaking the glow in McCree’s eyes. 

They made their way back to the point, and Hanzo watched as the light around McCree intensified, until he stood on the balcony of the shipping center and stared down like a vengeful sun. 

 

“Will you do the honors, darling?” McCree raised his gun. Hanzo smirked. 

 

“It is High Noon.” 

  
  


McCree spent most of the return trip to base being fussed over by Mercy, who had her hands full making sure there were no complications from his impromptu patch up. Hanzo watched him like a hawk, occasionally catching the cowboy’s eye. McCree smiled at him every time their eyes met, and Hanzo was sure the blush didn’t fade from his face the entire ride. 

 

They parted ways in the hanger, McCree to the medical ward for final tests, Hanzo to the showers to try and soothe his jittery nerves. 

 

_ (He kissed Mccree.) _

 

**< He kissed McCree.>**

 

{ He kissed McCree. }

 

“I kissed him,” he whispered to himself, words all but vanishing under the spray of the showerhead. “I want to do it again.” 

 

Ablutions complete, Hanzo managed to keep himself occupied for a grand total of ten minutes before he went searching for McCree. Those ten minutes were all that McCree needed to come to him, nearly colliding with him as he opened the door. 

 

“McCree!” 

“Hey. I was just--uh. Coming to find you.” 

 

“I was--” Hanzo swallowed the lump of icy dread in his throat. “The same.” 

 

“I figured you’d be more comfortable on your own turf, but we could go walking if you’d rather?” 

 

“No, here is fine.” Hanzo stepped back to admit him entry. He tried not to be charmed that McCree took off his boots at the door.  _ (He failed.) _

 

Hanzo gestured for McCree to sit at the low table he’d brought in, and McCree folded himself into a seated position. Neither of them spoke. 

 

Finally, Hanzo drew in a deep breath. 

 

“How is your injury?” 

 

McCree patted his side and chuckled. 

 

“All patched up,” he said. “Between that and the--ah--'boost’ you gave me, I’m good to go.” 

 

Hanzo’s cheeks pinked. 

 

“Good.” 

 

“It’s actually that ‘boost’ I wanted to talk to you about,” McCree went on. The blood rushed abruptly from Hanzo’s face. McCree pursed his lips and glanced to the side, then met and held Hanzo’s gaze. “Look, I don’t know what you heard about me or my kind, but most of the time, the trick we pulled today wouldn’t have worked.” 

 

“No?” Hanzo heard himself ask as if he hadn’t spent hours trying to find out more about incubi lore and the history of empathic-symbiotism. 

 

“The act of the thing ain’t what gives us our energy. It’s the pleasure in it--the enjoyment of everyone involved. So I don’t want you thinking that I just go lay one on anybody who comes by when I need a pick-me-up.” 

 

“I do not,” said Hanzo, though the words seemed to come from far away, somewhere behind the memory of a dry, three-hundred page essay on Victorian conservatism villainizing Jesse’s ancestors. 

 

“Good, good.” McCree nodded slowly. “Which brings me around to my next point. It  _ did _ work, which means we both got some feelings that probably need discussing.” 

 

_ (I want you, Hanzo did not say. I want to know every inch of you and make the taste of you my favorite flavor. I want to wake up to your warmth and stay wrapped in your arms and drag you back to bed until the day has passed us by. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours.) _

 

**< I am a wreck, Hanzo also did not say. I have done unforgivable things, and the guilt of them will drive me to do many more, and you’ve seen the worst of them walking around every day. He is arguably your best friend. You have breakfast with him. Sometimes. When I am not monopolizing your time. Everyone I love suffers, usually at my hand. Spare yourself.>**

 

{ I am trying, Hanzo still did not say. I am not worthy of you yet, but if you wait, if you can be patient, I will try to be. }

 

What Hanzo did say was, “I am sorry.” 

 

McCree rocked back as if struck. 

 

“What have you got to be sorry for, darling?” He asked, brow screwed up in confused concern. 

 

“I--” Hanzo paused. Somehow this wasn’t how he expected his first proper apology to go. “I kissed you.” 

 

“I do recall being present for that.” 

 

“You were bleeding out, and that was the grand sum of my clever plan.” Hanzo frowned. “I kissed you, and you had to endure reading my feelings…” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” McCree leaned forward and grabbed him by the shoulders. “What’s this ‘endure’ nonsense? I just told you, it has to be enjoyed by  _ everyone _ involved, and that includes me.” 

 

“You were not…” Hanzo struggled for words. His usual thoughts deserted him. “... surprised?” 

 

McCree licked his lips. Hanzo watched intently. 

 

“Darling, I don’t know if you realize this, but for a stealthy ninja ex-yakuza sort… you’re kind of shit at hiding your emotions,” said McCree. 

 

Hanzo blinked, scowled, caught himself scowling, and tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe all emotion from his face. 

 

“I am not!” He protested futilely. 

 

McCree cracked a faint grin. 

 

“Sweetheart, you really are.” He quickly pulled out his phone and snapped a picture before Hanzo could react. He turned it around and zoomed in on Hanzo’s face. “See right there, sugar? That line is your ‘he must be joking’ line. And this little dip here is your ‘secretly pleased but trying not to show it’ smirk. And see how your ears go red right along this ridge here?”

 

Hanzo batted at McCree’s hands. 

 

“Do not make things up!” 

 

“I ain’t! That’s what happens when you get called out on some bit o’ melodrama--ah, see, you’re doing it right now.” 

 

“I am not!” 

 

McCree leaned closer and ran a finger over the shell of Hanzo’s ear. The archer shivered and writhed. 

 

“Red as my serape, sweetheart,” he said, “and near as warm, too.” 

 

Hanzo, to his sublime embarrassment, blushed harder. The hand by his ear cupped his face and turned his chin back towards McCree. 

 

“So, just so we’re on the same page here…” he said. “Every time you’ve been having those thoughts--or even second thoughts--I’ve known. Not on account of what I can do in bed, but because I like you, and I’ve been paying attention to what you do, trying to get to know you better. Is that alright?” 

 

“Aside from my humiliating inability to keep my emotions to myself?” Hanzo muttered. 

 

“Ain't nothing wrong with having feelings,” McCree replied. “Perfectly natural thing to do. Can’t say I don’t worry none when you get that little furrow here,” McCree tapped a place just above the bridge of Hanzo’s nose, “where I suspect you’re being particularly hard on yourself, but…” He shrugged. “If you ever wanna talk about it, I’ll listen. Or if you’d rather find some other way to shut up that nagging little voice, I’m game for that, too.” 

 

“You…do not mind?” 

 

McCree smoothed out the wrinkle in Hanzo’s brow, smiling gently. 

 

“Honey, we’ve been basically dating for the last six months. If I minded, I wouldn’t be having two out of three meals with you every day, nor go seeking your company every chance I get, neither.” 

 

“We were not--” Hanzo stopped, reconsidered his words, and blushed deeper. “...six months?” 

 

“I’m counting from the first prank, in case you were wondering.” 

 

“The nicknames--?! But we barely knew each other!” 

 

“Isn’t that what dating’s for? Getting to know each other and having a good time while doing it?” 

 

Hanzo flustered. 

 

“It does not count if one party involved is unaware that they are dates!” he said. “I thought--” What  _ did _ he think? 

 

“You thought?” McCree prompted, almost painfully patient. 

 

“I wanted…” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Hanzo let out a frustrated sigh. 

 

“It still does not count.”

 

“Alright, then.” McCree nodded agreeably. “Would you like to go out with me?” 

 

_ (Direct, but unmistakably so this time. Charming, in its own way.) _

 

**< He would see. Let him close, and he would see what a mess Hanzo was. All the twisted thoughts in his head.>**

 

{ He already sees. There is only one thing to do. }

 

**< Jump out the window, swim for shore, steal a truck, and drive until it runs out of fuel?>**

 

{ Uh, no, and that was four things. }

 

**< Well, you come up with a better plan.>**

 

Hanzo’s third thoughts did not have time to formulate an argument because McCree started brushing his thumb across Hanzo’s cheekbone, and that made most of his thoughts shut up. 

 

“You got that look again, sweetheart,” he said, as gentle as his touch. “If it’s about the sex thing, we don’t gotta. I just wanna be with you. You’re the one who looks at me just so you can see me. I ain’t anyone but myself when I’m with you, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me.” 

 

“I do. Want you. As yourself.” Hanzo tried to clarify and clenched his hands into fists as his words tangled gracelessly. “But…” 

 

“But?” 

 

{ But nothing. McCree did not need supernatural, sex-driven empathy to read Hanzo. He had learned to do that the old fashioned way; by this point, he could obviously tell when Hanzo was in a spiral of second thoughts just from the twitch of his nose or some other minute reaction. He learned, and he stayed. }

 

McCree’s gaze flickered over all the nuances of Hanzo’s face, looking for some sign that he should pull away. 

 

Hanzo realized he, too, could read McCree’s face. The brightness in his eyes was the most obvious trait, but there were other cues. The creases by the corners of his eyes, a smile partially repressed so as not to be smug. The slight lift of his brows, just enough concern to say he wasn’t 100% certain he was wanted. The flex of the hand on Hanzo’s face, deep desire, restrained longing. 

 

Hanzo reached out and grasped McCree’s free hand. 

 

“Maybe the pranks can count after all,” he said. “We have waited long enough.” 

 

McCree groaned softly as Hanzo kissed him. 

 

“Darling,” he purred, “you read my mind.” 

 


	2. The Good Stuff

“Athena, engage privacy mode,” Jesse said. 

 

“Engaging privacy mode. Reminder, quarters monitoring will be suspended except for emergency keywords. Please establish Safety Protocol.” 

 

“Did she just ask us for a safeword?” Hanzo’s eyebrows arched sharply. McCree laughed. 

 

“Safety Protocol, Safety Protocol….How about Holy Water?” Hanzo nodded, already flushing as McCree’s hand crept up his knee.

 

“Safety Protocol: Holy Water acknowledged,” Athena replied. “Please enjoy safe, consensual intercourse.” The computer console went dim, and the power indicator light blinked slowly to show the terminal was in sleep mode. Hanzo regarded it with a cautious eye. 

 

“How many agents have been killed mid-coitus?” 

 

“Fewer than you’d think.” Jesse’s hand slid up Hanzo’s thigh. “Just ‘cause it’s on privacy mode doesn’t mean people don’t notice comings and goings. If you want real discrete, we’ll have to go off base.” He let his thumb rest in the divot of Hanzo’s hip, leaning forward to capture a kiss. “Though you’ll have to forgive me darling, I didn’t use much discretion at all on my way down here today.” 

Hanzo hummed amicably and gripped Jesse’s serape, dragging him closer.

 

“I think I could be persuaded to be lenient,” he smirked, “for the right incentive.” Jesse’s hands drifted to the knot of Hanzo’s obi, tugging it loose. 

 

“I can be mighty persuasive,” he grinned, “when the occasion calls for it.” 

 

“It does.” Hanzo nipped at Jesse’s lips as he reached for the weighty BAMF buckle. “It most certainly does.” The obi fell away, and Jesse slipped his hands under the open gi, running his fingers along the firm curves of Hanzo’s ribs and hipbones as Hanzo fought to pull Jesse’s belt out of the way of his fly. They kissed again until they had to pull back for breath, though Jesse only retreated far enough to bury his face in the juncture between Hanzo’s neck and shoulder, where he sucked a bruise that would last for days. 

 

“Is that going to show above my collar?” Hanzo gasped. Jesse tugged at the loosened cloth to test. 

 

“Yup. Looks like. Sorry, was that a no-go?” 

 

“Only if you are adverse to me returning the gesture.” Hanzo dropped his head. His teeth gritted against the side of Jesse’s throat. 

 

“By all means, please do.” Jesse whimpered as Hanzo left a mark as large, if not larger, than the one he’d been given. Jesse’s tactical undershirt wouldn’t be able to completely hide the mark. Hanzo leaned back to admire his handiwork, and Jesse took advantage of his momentary distraction to seize handfuls of Hanzo’s ass and  _ squeeze. _ Hanzo bucked and yelled, then glared a little at him. 

 

“Greedy,” he chided. 

 

“The greediest,” Jesse nodded. “Like a pirate. I see booty, and I gotta get my hands on it.” 

 

Hanzo groaned. “That joke is awful. Never make it again.” 

 

Jesse responded by slipping one finger under Hanzo’s waistband. His other hand palmed Hanzo’s groin, feeling the thick shaft there swell beneath his attentions. Hanzo moaned and pressed into his hand. Jesse slipped his fingers further down, dropping into the dimple where muscles corded together. 

 

“I dunno, seems like you’re enjoying my company just fine, bad jokes and all.” He pressed a row of kisses down Hanzo’s chest, straight down the line of his sternum.

 

“McCree--!” Hanzo gasped. McCree bit him. 

 

“C’mon, Hanzo,” he whined. “You know my name. I wanna hear you wail it at the top of your pretty lungs.” 

 

Hanzo bit back, grinding up into him again with a smirk. 

 

“Then you better give me a reason to wail,  _ McCree _ .” 

 

Jesse growled, showing too-sharp teeth as he hauled himself to his feet and brought Hanzo with him. Hanzo locked his arms and legs around Jesse for balance and took special amusement in the way he could feel Jesse’s arousal, hot and insistent though still trapped in his pants. Jesse squeezed Hanzo’s ass again, stagger over to the bed. 

 

“Prep first, sweetheart, then play.” He nuzzled at Hanzo’s neck, whiskers tickling at the sensitive and abused skin. “Do me a favor and reach into my back pockets?” 

 

Hanzo rebalanced himself so he could dig into the tight pocket, indulging in a leisurely grope of the supple flesh beneath his palm. One pocket held condoms, the other held a pack of lube. 

 

“Someone was confident tonight,” Hanzo raised an eyebrow. “Seven?” 

 

“Seven’s a lucky number,” Jesse grumbled, dropping Hanzo on the bed. 

 

“You are  _ going _ to get lucky,” Hanzo smirked, “but I do not think anyone is  _ that _ lucky.” His eyes widened as he read the foil packet. “I did not think  _ I _ could possibly be that lucky.” 

 

“Oh, you are.” McCree got up on the bed and slotted against Hanzo’s body, grinding against Hanzo’s girth swelling in his loose pants before freeing both their cocks and slicking them generously. “You definitely are. Seems like we’re both pretty lucky tonight.” 

 

They rutted together blindly, pants kicked off and forgotten as they found pleasure in the friction. Jesse wrapped one hand around them both and kept a steady rhythm as their faces flushed and sweat started to build up enough to drip down the curves of Hanzo’s pectorals. They kissed, slow and deep, fast and shallow, and the strokes paced to match; Jesse grinning when he managed to get Hanzo’s eyes to roll back a bit, Hanzo taking revenge by wrapping his hands around Jesse’s and tightening the grip around them. The sound that clawed its way from the cowboy’s throat sent a fresh wave of pleasure through the archer’s cock. Hanzo very nearly called out Jesse’s name, but managed to bite his tongue before he got past the first syllable, swallowing the rest of it like a secret. 

 

“Gonna have to sing for me sooner or later, sweetheart,” Jesse teased between thrusts. 

 

“Going to have to try a little-- _ ungh! _ ” Hanzo felt his orgasm approach, so intense he could not finish his sentence. McCree grinned, eyes bright as the pleasure Hanzo chased. “ _ JESSE! _ ”

 

“There we go,” he purred. The gentle thunder rolled through Hanzo’s skin, and he spilled across his own stomach, unable to catch his breath. McCree held onto him through the whole thing, coaxing out a few more spurts with lazy strokes. He eased Hanzo into a reclining position, then lapped at the muscles and skin laid out before him like a buffet until he’d licked up every spilled drop. 

 

“You didn’t come,” Hanzo realized blearily as he realized his hand was still around McCree’s erection, hard and bouncing as McCree rocked his hips. 

 

“Did so,” McCree said, but he continued to thrust into Hanzo’s hand all the same. “You were a bit out of it, darling, but this is round two for me.” 

 

Hanzo stared incredulously. 

 

“No,” he gaped. 

 

“Yup.” 

 

“It is not possible.” 

 

“‘Fraid it is.” 

 

“Have you no refractory period?!”

 

“None of which to speak,” McCree hummed absently, deepening his thrusts. “Though I hear tell it’s quite the ordeal.” 

 

_ “Really?!” _

 

“Makes us real fun at parties,” Jesse waggled his eyebrows, and Hanzo closed his hand tighter. Jesse stiffened, then spent himself. Warmth spread down Hanzo’s arm as the thick cock in his grasp twitched and jerked. He stared at the liquid with rapt attention, finally letting go to bring his hand towards his lips. Jesse grabbed him by the wrist, firmly but gently. 

 

“Don’t feel the need to reciprocate, partner,” he said. 

 

“You tasted me,” Hanzo tried not to sulk, mostly unsuccessfully. “May I not do the same to you?” 

 

“May, can, and should are three wildly different things, sugar.” Jesse replied, already kissing Hanzo’s arm clean. “You certainly  _ may _ ; you have my permission to have your wicked way with me any which way you please. As for  _ can _ , well, I’m fairly certain you can do anything you set your mind to.” He leered a little, easing some of the apprehension in Hanzo’s chest. “Now,  _ should _ you… well, if you want to, I wouldn’t mind, but it means something different for us if you do that, and that’s a conversation for a day when we still have all our clothes on. In the meantime, I came prepared to avoid any further ‘cultural misunderstandings,’ okay?” He held up the foil packets of condoms. 

 

Hanzo pursed his lips, but dropped his eyes back down to Jesse’s cock, which already hard again. He wanted it inside of him as of yesterday. 

 

“Very well,” he acquiesced. “But in the future, you should tell me these things in advance. I cannot respect customs of which I have no knowledge.” 

 

Jesse leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, smiling. 

 

“Will do, darling. Now, how do you want to do this?” 

 

Hanzo pulled gently at Jesse’s cock again, and got a thrill at the way the man gasped above him. 

 

“I want what you have promised me from the very first day of our acquaintance,” he growled. “I want you, as yourself and in your entirety. I want to know every inch of you, and I want you to know every inch of me the same way.” He opened the condom package and rolled the contents down over Jesse’s cock. Jesse shivered and smiled. He spread Hanzo’s legs apart and slicked up his hands, running his fingers over the sensitive skin before slowly opening him up. 

 

“Sweetheart,” he purred, “it will be my genuine pleasure.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tsol for beta-ing!


End file.
